


Paint Me A Rainbow And Call Me A Cab, Part Four

by kuonji



Series: Paint Me A Rainbow And Call Me A Cab [4]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Character Development, Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Old Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuonji/pseuds/kuonji
Summary: The truth was, Ken wanted to trust David, even though every sensible part of his brain was warning him not to get too close to the man.





	1. The Question

"Hutchinson Studio. Ken speaking."

"Ken, darling!" cried a familiar voice that made Ken blink.

"H-Hi...!"

"You have company? Business or pleasure?"

Was he that transparent? Ken glanced toward the door where David was rolling his car keys back and forth in one palm while trying not to look like he was eavesdropping. He hesitated with his reply.

Being with Dave was surely a pleasure, of course. But it was hard to categorize him as 'company' anymore after Ken had spent half an hour dripping snot on his shirt that night. Dave hadn't pushed him to talk more at the time, nor had he called attention to the incident again, but Ken didn't think he was imagining the... protective sort of way that Dave looked at him sometimes, when they had met last week and today. It should have annoyed him, but it only made him feel an unaccustomed warmth -- and a little panic.

It'd been a long time since he had let himself feel this comfortable with anyone aside from Charlie, and it was frightening how much he liked it.

The truth was, Ken wanted to trust David, even though every sensible part of his brain was warning him not to get too close to the man. He had to keep reminding himself that Dave, unlike Charlie, was, practically speaking, a near-stranger. He was a soldier, a cop. He was straight. He knew very little about Ken's past and the world that Ken inhabited, and he was as likely to understand and sympathize with him as a songbird might wish to learn how to swim.

And yet...

"Not business," he finally said.

"Hmm, I'll be quick, then. I just wanted to tell you that three more of your pieces have sold. The diamond ring, the pearls, and the girl on the hilltop."

The news dashed Dave from Ken's thoughts for the moment. "That's great! All to the same buyer?"

"No, two different ones. And before you ask, I didn't forget: The ring and the girl with the earrings went as a set." He felt a pang of relief at that. "Do you want to bring over replacements? You can treat me to lunch at the usual place."

He perched on the back of the couch and smiled in exasperation. "I can treat you, huh?"

"Oh, Ken. _Don't_ be stingy. We haven't seen each other in ages."

He rolled his eyes. "A whole month, isn't it?"

"That's right."

He shook his head and stretched the phone cord as he walked over to study the calendar on the wall. "Well, I can't make it today, but how about Thursday? I'll even make it dinner. You can't say I don't treat you nice."

"It's Christmas season, Ken! You know how it gets. Today's the only day I'll have free for the next two weeks."

Ken sighed. "We can reschedule for after New Year's then."

"You can't! I'll have blank spots on the wall! It'd look awful! Come on, you could sell eight or ten more this _week_. You know you can."

Ken dithered. He _could_ sell more pieces during the holidays, with everyone looking for that special one-of-a-kind gift, or that last minute purchase. Could -- and had --in years before. In fact, he had some set aside already just for this purpose. Nearly half the usual retail stores' merchandise was sold during the month of December, and arts and crafts tended to get a good bump as well. By the same token, however, today was also one of the few holidays he was giving himself until after Christmas. He was loath to give that up.

He'd been looking forward to dragging his new friend to a foreign film downtown that had gotten good reviews, followed by a late lunch at a supposedly authentic Mexican place that Dave raved about. Ken thought from the sound of it that it would probably give him heartburn, but he was willing to try it, for something new to rib Dave about if for nothing else. They'd started to fall into a pattern of one-upmanship that Ken enjoyed.

He looked toward the door to try and catch Dave's eye and ask his opinion about cancelling today, but the doorway was empty. He checked around, frowning -- and froze in horror at what he found.

Dave had wandered over to the couch in his restless fashion. He was now holding an open dark gray cloth-bound sketchbook and staring raptly at the pages. Perhaps aware of the scrutiny, he looked up. His eyes, completely guileless, were squinted in excitement. "These are fantastic!" he said, then winced and lifted one hand, palm out in a half-wave.

Ken couldn't fathom that for a moment, too absorbed by the thought of what Dave had in his hands. _Too close_ , the warnings in his mind blared. _Too close._ He'd been thinking only a second earlier about one-upmanship. This was something much too big to let fall into Dave's hands.

He realized with a belated start that Dave's gesture had been an apology for interrupting his phone conversation. Indeed, now that he paid attention, he heard his name being repeated from the other end of the line: "...Ken? Hey, are you still there?"

"Uh... Uh, yes. Right. Today."

"Perfect! One o' clock in front of the store?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied, distractedly. He wasn't sure what else was said, aware only of hanging up the phone and crossing quickly to where Dave sat.

"Don't--" He had to stop to clear his throat. His heart seemed to have climbed up into it, the throbbing blocking his air passage. "Don't look at those. They're not for public view." He thought he kept his voice only casually embarrassed.

"Hell, coulda fooled me," Dave returned, not seeming to have noticed anything amiss. He gestured at the page. "These're _amazing_. It's like they're lookin' right back at me." Ken got behind Dave and breathed a soundless, open-mouthed sigh of profound relief. Dave was studying a page from a month ago, with sketches of various dark-colored men's faces from different views.

He plucked the book away and snapped it shut. "That's enough," he said briskly, succeeding in sounding merely reprimanding now that the threat was removed. "Show-and-tell's over."

"Can't I see the rest of it?" Dave wheedled.

"There's nothing interesting in there. Just random sketches and thoughts," he dismissed.

Keep away. Keep away.

Dave made a face, but he had apparently heard the finality in Ken's tone, because he didn't ask again. "Touchy, touchy. Charlie warned me about you artist folk," was all he said. He stood up. "Ready to go see your unpronounceable French flick?"

Ken smiled half-heartedly. His nerves were still tingling at the near disaster. And he still needed to tell Dave the bad news. "Listen, I'm sorry..." he started.

Dave's face fell. "You got business today?" he asked, in an understanding tone.

The disappointed look on his face made Ken curse himself for his own weakness. But he was grateful -- oh so grateful -- for the excuse.

"Yeah, that was my agent." Secrets wrapped in truth. "I have to bring over some new pieces, and there's no other time we can meet until after the holiday season is past."

"Hey, maybe we could still meet up for dinner. The place is open until--"

"No." Too abrupt. He clenched the sketchbook tightly in his hand for reassurance and forced himself to calm. "No, I think we'll probably need the rest of the day to plan the holiday sales. I'm really sorry, Dave. This was real last minute. Next time?"

"Okay..." he answered with obvious reluctance. "Call me, okay? I dunno when I'll be free."

Dave was working multiple double shifts lately. Holidays apparently 'brought out the crazies', as he'd told Ken. Plus, he'd offered to take over a few shifts for other officers who had wives and children waiting at home. They had had to reschedule this day once already. The thought added to Ken's guilt.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. Dave sighed, but then shrugged philosophically.

"Hey, if I don't see you before then, Merry Christmas, okay?" Before Ken could react, Dave threw his arms around Ken in a bear hug.

Shocked out of his tight control, Ken laughed and hugged the silly cop back. The sketchbook thumped against Dave's back. "Merry Christmas," he answered heartily.

Ken walked him to the door and waved from the top of the stairs. Dave paused once to look back. And then he was gone.

Heaving out a breath, Ken went back to the couch and dropped onto it. He let his head fall back for long minutes, simply waiting for his body's fear instinct to calm down. He spread his hands over his sketchbook, a plain simple monochrome gray, just a few shades away from pure black. His first one had been brown faux leather and smaller in size. One time, he'd found a novelty triangular-shaped one. A few he had decorated himself.

Straightening, he flipped through until he found the page Dave had been perusing. Black men were arranged on the page in a backwards chronology, from a copy of a man who had graced civil rights era magazine covers, to a civil war era Union soldier, to copies of sketches of the African 'savages', to, finally, an imagined drawing of the common ancestor of them all -- neolithic man. Underneath, Ken had written, pensively, _Where did it start?_ followed by the explanatory note, in square brackets: _finished "Modern Othello" last night_ and a date. He wondered what, if anything, Dave had made of the sketches and the caption.

Dave's bar-owner friend, Huggy, had inspired him to experiment with drawing other Black men. It had shamed him to realize that even though he had certainly sketched non-White people before this, and done a few commissioned portraits, he had never composed a Black man or woman into the focus of an original art piece. Eventually, he had completed a piece that he was satisfied with and had entered it for the upcoming Citizens of Color show in February. Looking at the reference pictures he had collected day after day had eventually caused him to do this journal entry.

Turning pages from the back, he quickly came to his last entry, the one he had been working on last night.

Ever since talking with Dave after Thanksgiving, he'd been having trouble focusing, and many of his nights had been plagued by uneasy dreams. It was just as well, he thought, to keep his distance from Dave for a while. It wasn't Dave's fault that Ken was a nutcase, he knew. But some hurtful memories had been stirred up.

Dave would have no idea what this sketchbook meant to Ken. What secrets it held. These books, unlike his other work or leisure related ones, were truly pieces of his private self. He'd been recording his feelings and thoughts in graphic form, with accompanying annotations, since shortly after he'd left college. There were some periods when he drew less -- when he was busy, or when his routine seemed not interesting enough to comment on. Others when current events would spur him to make a new entry every few days.

Having Dave in his life had inspired flurries of new thoughts and ideas. He'd had this one for two months so far and it was already almost full.

He normally kept his sketchbook by his bed, but he'd been restless the past two weeks. He'd gotten up and gone to his drawing studio to do a little prep work for a client. Around one in the morning, he'd decided to fix some tea, and he'd sat in the living room and sketched to keep his mind empty while he'd waited for the kettle to boil on the stove. After that, he'd simply gone back to his work, and from there directly to bed.

He fingered the edge of the page. Last night, he'd been thinking about Nancy and their brief time together. He'd drawn a shadowed three-quarter view of her face, nearly a silhouette -- her features all but forgotten over the years -- and a rough remembered abstractness of the view from the motel where they had spent their secret honeymoon night. The wedding ring on her left hand stood out, a spot of flat white amid the rest of the dark, overly textured and shaded sketch.

Two-dimensional, but pretty. That's what their marriage had been like, too.

Most of his relationships were like that still. He had many acquaintances, some people he called friends. But when it really came down to it, Ken could never bring himself to truly trust anyone except his best friend, Charlie. He knew he could let Dave in. It would be easy. But should he? Would he still think it worth it if Dave wound up hurting him?

 _Too close_ , the warning came again, and he irritably shoved it aside. It had been worth it to bring up the hurt, he told himself, so that he could have experienced Dave's astonishingly warmhearted reaction alongside it. It was the tearing in two ways that was bothering him most.

Trust the cop. Or don't. He had to make a decision.

He turned back a dozen pages to what he had drawn the night Dave had come to talk to him about Maggie. The drawing in front of him was sprawled across two facing pages. It had taken two nights to complete, one to sketch, and another for details. He'd even gotten out of bed to fetch some color pencils for accents. From Dave's reaction, he didn't think he had seen this page. The curious detective would surely have asked questions if he had.

A car lay on its side halfway down a slope. Heavy snow drifts made the car nearly invisible. The tiny figure trapped inside was indistinguishable from the twisted chassis. There was no sign that someone might be trapped inside there with a concussion and a broken arm, growing closer to death by exposure every second and very near to wishing for it.

Slight steam rising up was all the sign of life from the remains of the vehicle. The landscape around was empty and cold. Minimal lines of blue in the snow, a touch of green to the car, and a hint of color inside magnified the desolation of the scene.

All this was based on Ken's own fancies, of course. He hadn't ever seen the car from the outside, despite his multiple drawings of the scene over the years. Although he had spent many hours on the edge of delirium, futilely trying to escape and sure he was not going to survive, he'd succumbed to unconsciousness before they had actually pulled him out. Afterward, what could be salvaged of his things had been sent directly to his hospital room, along with the cab to take him to the airport.

In the bottom left corner of the drawing, Ken had copied the quote, _"Your parents screwed up, and it was their loss. They should have been proud to have you."_ He'd drawn a large question mark beside the words.

After all this time, he had started to convince himself that he didn't care anymore. The truth was, though, he would have preferred to trash all his things and _walk_ to the airport if only his family would have visited him just once. Maybe it was just as well that the break had been so stark, or he might have teetered on that edge of hope for far too long.

He shut the book and fell back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Trust. Or don't trust.

Maybe the decision had already been made.

  
END Chapter 1.


	2. A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Van was very much like a runaway train that he wasn't sure if he wanted to stop even if he knew how. The Van now, who waltzed through life in pearls and furs, was much the same underneath as the woman he had met back then in her sundress and acrylic earrings -- the fierce woman who had overturned his anxious, despondent existence and rebuilt him into the newest art craze in Bay City._

Since he already had the pieces chosen, it was a simple matter to pack them carefully into a portfolio and then into the trunk of his car. It was a short twenty minute drive to Philler's Jewelry Boutique, and he was lucky enough to seize a space right out front as another car pulled out of it. Moving to Southern California had certainly taught him skills in aggressive driving, he reflected in some amusement.

Vanessa looked up expectantly as he walked in, the tinkle of the welcome bell announcing his presence if the rush of cool air caused by him entering did not.

"Ken!" she greeted, gliding out from behind the counter. Without preamble, she pulled him down and kissed him enthusiastically, her shorter height -- even in three-inch heels -- forcing him to hunch down.

His ex-wife had mobile, sensual lips. It wasn't exactly a hardship to kiss her, though he could do very well without it, considering their history together. She held on for a few seconds more after he tried to pull away. As he straightened, he was unsurprised to notice a female patron at the side with one hand over her mouth in obviously delighted shock. He barely kept himself from grimacing. It was Mrs. Samford, one of Van's regular customers and a well-known gossip.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave now, Mrs. Samford," Van said to the slightly older woman, smoothly apologetic. "I have some business with Ken." She left the slightest of pauses before the word 'business'. Ken didn't stop himself from rolling his eyes this time, but he didn't think Mrs. Samford noticed anyway. She was too busy patting Vanessa's hand in a sisterly fashion and apparently trying not to giggle.

"You two be careful, now," she admonished, before whisking out the door in her floor-length fur coat and boots.

Van locked the door and shut the blinds.

Ken waited until she turned back to him before saying, "Today isn't the only free day you have, is it? You wanted me to come now because you had an appointment with _her_."

"As it happens, I _am_ busy until after New Year's. But it was nice that she was here, wasn't it? Such a dear." Her smirk was playful and fetching and slightly devilish.

"Do you really think that's still necessary?"

"Publicity can never hurt, darling."

Ken sighed. That was always the way with her. She was always thinking about marketing the image and using her relations for profit. For mutual profit, he admitted. He had his own career largely, if not exclusively, thanks to her, after all. She had promised him: five years together, or as soon as they had enough money for twenty-five hundred dollars savings and a separate apartment each, plus six-month's starting capital for a studio for him and the jewelry store for herself that she had always wanted. Then an amicable divorce.

She had managed it in four and two months.

"Let's see what you have for me," she said briskly. Her eyes narrowed slightly, looking excited and covetous.

Obligingly, he set his portfolio on the center glass counter above the various glittering pieces inside, and he unzipped the large wraparound zipper to open it up like a book. He'd brought ten drawings, each wrapped neatly in wax paper. They were all the same modest size for Van's frames. They had discovered that the roughly one by one-and-a-half foot pieces looked best on the walls of her five hundred square foot storefront, and they also looked best for the living rooms of her patrons.

He undid the straps holding them in place and spread out the top three. They were all in his signature style -- human subjects in charcoal with watercolor accents. The mediums mixed well if done carefully, and varying the proportions of each gave him a large range of flexibility. He did the occasional pure charcoal or pure watercolor as well, and he tried his hand at pastels, oils, and any other medium that took his fancy, but this was what he was known for. This was what Van had made him known for. And despite a slight sense of guilt at the commercialism of it, he took pride in his 'brand'.

For Van's store, he tried to choose compositions with jewelry themes, since they were displayed alongside her merchandise. He liked the combined guidance and challenge of working within a constraint. He always best enjoyed themed art shows. Testing his own creativity within set parameters lent a challenging edge to his work. It wasn't easy to come up with original works on a continual basis. He often took inspiration from Van's newly purchased shipments, which in turn drove up her sales. It was an excellent arrangement all around.

Van didn't try to touch the pieces herself. She had always been good about respecting his work, and he returned the favor with hers. In that respect, they had never had any conflicts from the start. Van herself was a classy dresser with an excellent eye for visual aesthetics, though she had had no formal training. In her store she had an ingenious way of displaying every piece as if it were of a quality for kings and queens. Even though her prices were only midrange, all the pieces that she bought were of elegant design and unquestionable value. Her obviously intelligent appreciation of art was why he had thought that her plan might work at all at the beginning.

As Van looked them over, Ken watched her face. It wasn't only the typical anxiety he felt when showing his pieces. Van's face changed when she looked at his art. It became sharper and more alert, but at the same time softer, as if she were inspecting a favored car or animal.

The look recalled when she had stopped in front of his streetside spread of sketches propped up by cardboard boxes and leftover crates. He'd noticed her at the outdoor café across the street for the last two weeks, and he'd suddenly wondered if she had been watching him. _"Would you like a portrait done?"_ he'd asked, trying to sound solicitous, but she had ignored him. _"You can do better,"_ she had said, after a moment of perusal, and he had felt shocked and not a little resentful. He'd long despaired of being 'found' by some rich patron, but darned if he would stand for insults from passersby!

_"Don't buy anything, then,"_ he'd answered. _"It's a free country."_

She had looked at him keenly then. _"No,"_ she'd said. _"I mean, you really can do better. And I can help you. If you help me."_

If someone were ever to write a biography of Ken's life, those words would be engraved as one of the turning points in it. Van was very much like a runaway train that he wasn't sure if he wanted to stop even if he knew how. The Van now, who waltzed through life in pearls and furs, was much the same underneath as the woman he had met back then in her sundress and acrylic earrings -- the fierce woman who had overturned his anxious, despondent existence and rebuilt him into the newest art craze in Bay City.

"Oh, this one's nice," Van said, pointing at the middle piece. He suppressed a smile at her choice, especially considering his reminisces. He'd used a photograph of a New York model for the figure he'd drawn standing on a windy sidewalk, but he'd used his own memories of Van to supplement the haughty, indignant expression on the woman's face, as if she was waiting impatiently for a cab to take her to a dressy party. Van had often looked at him that way, condescendingly impatient at his reluctance to 'socialize', which was her way of both exposing them both to the public and also to enjoy the fruits of their labor. He was sure she still found the time now to attend the elegant parties she favored at least twice a month.

Straightening, he moved all three pieces to the front counter and took out another set to replace them. They continued in this fashion until Van had reviewed them all. She also picked out three to replace the empty frames on the walls, currently holding tasteful beige placards that read: _This piece has recently been sold, but please expect to see a brand new one-of-a-kind genuine Hutchinson here soon_. He wished the new owners hadn't picked up the pieces already. He always experienced a mix of wistfulness and pride when he sold one, and he liked to get a last look at them before they disappeared into others' homes.

"You want these in the back, then?" he asked, gathering the remaining seven together.

"I don't want to put this one up until January. In time for Valentine's Day, you know?" she said, about the piece with the smiling couple with their heads together, "Do you want to leave it here or take it back with you?" He shrugged. He'd thought somebody might want to get it for his or her spouse or lover for Christmas, but Van knew her own clientele best.

"You can keep it."

"All right. I'll lock up and get your money. And then you're taking me to Chez Broussard, right?" she reminded him sweetly, with a wheedling pout. Van had always known how to charm people.

She could also cry and carry on at the drop of a hat if it suited her purposes. Their marriage had had its share of drama, for all that it had been mostly for show. It was hard to figure out Van sometimes. If he accused her of trying to manipulate him, she seemed to get genuinely angry -- even hurt. He had seen her tremble and go silent once after he'd hurled a particularly nasty insult at her. He'd felt sorry immediately afterward -- yet he could never quit feeling that nagging uncertainty of whether she was only acting again or not. Maybe even she didn't know.

One thing he had learned, however, was that Van was very good at getting what she wanted. Although sometimes she took on more than it seemed she could handle, she was ambitious and clever and willing to go the underhanded route when that was most convenient. She had walked out on a prestigious marriage to pick up a starving portrait artist on the street for a husband. "I'm not marrying my father's forty-eight-year-old banker, but I'm not going to be poor either," she had declared, and she had proceeded with single-minded determination to make her prediction come true.

He looked at her now, the woman who had once worn his ring and shared his home. She had on a clingy black velvet dress today, with loops of pearls and a sparkling belt for accents. A wide bracelet encrusted with a scattering of small gems shone on one wrist, and a diamond graced each dainty ear. She was a woman who believed in enjoying her own merchandise, yet she never overdid it. Her ensembles were always tasteful and well-suited to her own body type and coloring. She was at once a woman of simple, straightforward tastes, and also complicated ones.

_"I want to be surrounded by pretty things every day, and I want to be able to do whatever I want all the time,"_ she had said once, six months into their marriage and the first time Ken had ever seen her look vulnerable to him. Touched, he had drawn a picture of her with luxurious clothing and shining jewelry, staring out the window with the dreamy, almost pensive expression that she had worn when she had said the words. When he had presented the drawing to her, she had given him a startled, almost frightened look, and then she had leaned her head against his shoulder and said, _"It's a good thing you're not straight, Ken, or we might be like all those other silly couples who fight all the time but say they love each other, too."_

"Chez Broussard it is," he said. "Whether or not I'll let you order the lamb will depend on how much you got for the three pieces." He touched the back of a knuckle to her cheek as he passed by her on his way to the storage room, and she turned to look back at him, bemused.

***

As it turned out, Ken thought he might get the lamb himself as well. Van had taken amazingly good advantage of the Christmas rush, charging nearly twice what he would have dared asked for. There was a reason why Van still acted as his agent for most of his contracts. He tended to underestimate his own selling power because he still sometimes couldn't believe he was actually making money off of his artwork.

He was glad they had conducted their business first thing. He always felt more at ease carrying cash in his pocket rather than his artwork in his car. It wasn't as if any harm could come to them, wrapped in the trunk, but he worried. Charlie liked to joke that what really worried Ken was that somebody would steal his junkheap of a car.

His series of dilapidated vehicles was one of the few things that Van and Charlie had ever agreed on. They both seemed to enjoy acting tragic around them, with fits of melodramatic horror. Indeed, when they got to his car, Van wrinkled her nose and sighed heavily before getting in. Ken argued, however, that his humble rides fit his 'bohemian artist' look, so she had finally had to stop griping -- out loud, anyway.

Ken put the key in the ignition, but before he started the car, he picked up a small plastic bag from the space between them and handed it to her. "Here."

Her eyes widened in pleasure as she opened it. Small, oval, orange shapes tumbled out into her hand. "How did you get them this early?" she asked. She picked up one of the kumquats and, wiping it on a handkerchief she pulled out of her purse, popped it in her mouth. Her face screwed up -- she always bit impatiently into the sour center -- before rearranging into a smile.

Ken shrugged casually. "I know a guy..." he said, affecting mystery. In fact, the health store that had just opened on his block carried various fruits and vegetables imported from up north, so it hadn't been much of a bother.

"They're wonderful. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

One of Van's first stipulations when they started 'dating' was that Ken bring her kumquats whenever they met in public. They were an unusual fruit, and an unusual gift for a date. Both facts were enough to pique people's interest in the couple, and, naturally enough, in Ken's art. It had been a creatively subtle strategy to garner the public's attention.

Ken had thought that was all it was. It wasn't until a few weeks after they were married that Ken discovered how much Van honestly liked eating them. He returned home unannounced one afternoon and found her dancing happily in the living room while eating a bag of kumquats she had bought for herself.

It was one of the few things about her that he could really trust was real, and it was little trouble for him to give them to her. He liked the way she became just another silly little girl when she ate the fruits. He liked how that reminded him of what he liked about her. That was why he continued to bring her kumquats even now.

Another thing that he was solidly certain Van enjoyed -- and which he didn't -- was fanfare and attention. When they arrived at the gilded doors of Chez Broussard, she stepped out of the car with the mien of a queen. The valet handing her out looked slightly starstruck. Ken wondered if he even knew who Van was, or if he were merely reacting to her attitude.

The valet on his side, meanwhile, opened and held his door with exact care. He was too well-trained to even lift an eyebrow at the beaten-up brown Ford with one green door that he'd been given temporary care of. It always secretly amused Ken to imagine how the valets felt parking his car here, especially when they saw him exit in his casual jeans and embroidered shirts. The management knew him, however, and he was never barred entry over as silly a thing as what he was wearing. He sometimes entertained the notion of arriving wrapped in a tin foil space suit or something equally outrageous -- of course claiming it was 'for art's sake'.

Smothering a grin, Ken gave Van his arm, and she smiled her 'public' smile at him (perhaps divining what he was thinking) before allowing herself to be led inside. Who knows? She might even like the attention. It would certainly put him in the papers again. Maybe when he needed the publicity more... That intrusive thought caused the fantasy to go slightly sour.

Van had made a reservation for the corner table -- something only possible for regular patrons -- and she thanked the maitre d' profusely for giving it to her at such late notice. The diners at neighboring tables gave them alternately envious and curious glances. He would bet the audience was why Van had insisted on making such a display of it.

Ken just sighed. This was the way it was with Vanessa. He had known from the start and certainly had no cause for complaint. He shook his head and laughed inwardly at how the maitre d' visibly glowed at Van's compliments for his service. Deciding to play the gloomy, laconic artist today, Ken sprawled in his seat and brusquely ordered a Perrier water for himself. He asked Van loudly if she still wanted the rum punch -- with the admonition that Pisces was in the southeast today. Without pause for her reply, he ordered lamb chops and Caesar salad for them both, then slouched down to study the tops of the brocaded walls.

Once the waiter left them alone (with startled offense hidden behind a professionally obsequious half-bow), Ken straightened and reverted to normal. Van scowled prettily at his behavior, but there was no heat in it. He had run this routine enough times that she must be used to it by now. Indeed, she had a suppressed, distracted air.

After their drinks arrived -- with Ken dismissing the waiter from pouring for him, as he 'wished to serve himself left-handed today', which he then did -- Van did not even roll her eyes before leaning forward. She checked their surroundings first, and he followed suit, curious. No one was paying them any attention anymore. "So you're seeing someone?" she asked in a conspiratorial fashion.

He stopped with his water glass in midair, surprised. "No, why do you say that?"

Van gave him an amused look. "Who's Mr. Not-Business?"

Ken shook his head, realizing the source of the misunderstanding. He took a drink and put his glass down. "It's not like that. He's just a friend."

"You don't have friends, Ken."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ken demanded, stung. He recalled thinking very similar sentiments a mere hour earlier. All his silly playacting vanished, and he stiffened in his seat.

"Tell me one person aside from Charlie whom you spend your free time with more than a couple of times a year."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, 'David', but he compressed his lips and kept silent.

"There, you see?" Van said, clearly triumphant. "So either he's your new lover, or he's about to be."

"It's not like that," Ken repeated, knowing that he sounded petulant. "Look, you don't know him."

"Then tell me about him."

Ken found himself stymied when faced with that surprising invitation. Even after all these years, Van's mercurial nature often baffled him. Sometimes she did take an interest in other people, but it was difficult for him not to wonder about her motives. "Why do you care?"

"Well, he is trying to steal my husband, after all." There was the tiniest amount of steel in Van's voice, as if she actually meant the words.

"What are you talking about? We've been divorced for years, and we weren't even really--"

"Shh!" Van hushed him with a fierce glare. The terms of their marriage were a secret, of course, though sometimes Ken wondered if the scandal wouldn't simply help both their sales even more. Perhaps Van was waiting for the right opportunity to expose it.

Half an hour in Van's company, and he was falling back into the cynical strategizing he had had to deal with back when they were married. "Van--"

She huffed and tapped the tabletop with one manicured nail. "I know I wasn't woman enough for you, Ken Hutchinson, but that's all right. You were the one who lost out." He couldn't believe what she was saying.

"Van, stop acting crazy! You were the one who wanted the divorce." She had been the one with the Grand Plan. Ken, nearly destitute and having none of his ideals left by the time they met, had merely followed her directives. And it had worked. Van was a brilliant saleslady and manager. What did she have to complain about now, after all this time?

"You never loved me," Van accused. It would have been excellent fodder for the rumor mills, except that she kept her voice low enough that not even the neighboring tables should be able to hear. Ken frowned, completely confused.

"You never loved me either," he retorted.

"No," she agreed loftily. "But that's not the point."

"What are you talking about?" His voice rose slightly with irritation. Van always did this, played him like this, confused him just to show off how much more worldly or sophisticated or savvy she was.

She gave him a long look. Finally she shrugged with a minimal movement of her velvet-wrapped shoulders. "It would have been nice to be loved by my own husband."

"You wanted your cake and to eat it, too, you mean," Ken surmised coolly.

"Oh, you wouldn't understand." She dismissed him with an angry shake of her head. "Anyway, we're getting away from the point."

"And that was...?"

Van quirked a smile, her mood shifting like a spring day. Perhaps she was regaining her good humor along with her control of the conversation. "Mr. Not-Business," she elaborated. "Tell me about him." Her smile turned teasing and slightly evil. "I want to know if he's _worthy_ of you."

Ken sighed. "It really doesn't matter what he's like, because he's _not_ my lover, and he's not going to be. He's straight."

"How do you know that? It's the sexual revolution! People are having fun in all sorts of naughty ways, in all sorts of naughty places. That light table of yours, for instance..."

Used to her attempts to disconcert, Ken nevertheless found himself lowering his eyes in embarrassment. Annoyed, he looked her squarely in the eye as he informed her, "He's a cop."

"So? You don't think there are gay cops?"

"There are. His best friend was one, and he was murdered just before we met."

He enjoyed the flicker of shock that crossed her face. "I'm sorry." She looked thoughtful. "So he's not a lover. He's a friend."

"That's what I said, wasn't it?"

"So what's he like?"

Ken considered his ex-wife. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes stared back at him out of a curious-seeming face. "He's... interesting," he finally said.

"Oh?"

"He was in the army, you know. He came to that show back in September, and he had such... surprising observations. I felt like he really understood what I was trying to convey -- and then some. It was amazing.

"And he didn't look down on me when I told him I didn't join the military. He didn't try to tell me I was lucky, either. He just... accepts people. But he _thinks_ about things, too. He gets really worked up about right and wrong, like the way I used to. When I'm with him, I feel like... I don't know, _younger_ or something. It's hard to explain."

Van had started out teasing, almost challenging. Now her face was softer, somehow. She looked the way she did when she was admiring his art. "You must really like him."

He cleared his throat. "Well... he's an admirable guy, I guess."

The soft look lingered for a moment. Then Van blinked, and it was gone. "Two questions: Is he handsome? and Is he single?" she asked in a saucy tone.

Ken opened his mouth to protest... but then he laughed and said, "Yes, to both." He raised a warning finger. "But I'm not going to introduce you. He's too honest for you to get your hooks into him."

Van clawed the fingers of one hand and mimed slashing at him. "You are a selfish, evil man, Ken."

  
END Chapter 2.


	3. A Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ken takes a run and has an idea.

Ken found it difficult to concentrate on his work after he got back from dropping Van off at her boutique. Every sketch looked lifeless and generic. Every line looked too thick or too dark. Every watercolor he mixed came out entirely the wrong hue. Paperwork was a complete wash, as he copied erroneous sums and fumbled even the name of his own studio (which was something of a feat, since it happened to be his own surname). Even reading the lastest copy of National Geographic (for research, of course) seemed stale.

And darn it if every glance at his light table didn't distract him, after what Van had said!

Finally, around two o' clock, Ken changed quickly into sweatpants and a T-shirt and went down for a jog to clear his head. The bite of the cool air certainly cleared his sinuses. He considered skipping the run after all -- but then he laughed to himself. He had gotten soft. By this time of year as a kid, he would be tramping to school through a layer of dirty snow and dreaming of snowball fights by the frozen pond.

The memory, as all his childhood memories did, caused him to sober again. Shaking himself and performing only the most perfunctory of stretches, he started out along the street. Early afternoon traffic was sparse, but there were a good number of shoppers on foot, browsing through the collection of quaint shops here. Christmas music tinkled and then faded as one door opened and closed. A small long-haired dachshund lay forlornly tied to a lamppost while his owners presumably explored the inside of the antique store opposite.

Ken's studio wasn't in the best location, being at the end of the row and farthest from the beach, but by the time he had opened, he had fortunately already had a good customer base. He rarely did drop-in work anymore. Nowadays, over half of his regular business came from existing clients, and ninety percent of even his new business came from people who came to him specifically via referral. Occasionally, in the summer tourist months, he liked to take an easel and his pencils down to the boardwalk and do some streetside sketches like he had used to. It was fun when people recognized him -- and even more interesting when they didn't.

He headed toward the beach now, taking it slow. Today wasn't supposed to be a grueling conditioning but rather a physical distraction to open his mind. Ken couldn't be sure how most people saw the world, of course, but he often found himself parsing what he saw into colors and shapes and textures, constantly yielding new observations and confirming familiar old ones. It was automatic. And a little exhausting sometimes. He needed to give his 'work eyes' a rest now and then in order to see more clearly, and exercise was a handy way to do that.

To free his mind further, he hummed an old folk tune in time to his footfalls. He had learned many of them at his grandfather's farm over accumulated years of visits. He had learned different tunes from a rotating group of seasonal hires, including some from almost every continent. When his grandfather passed away, he had cried as much for those lazy days in the field as for the stern, distant, gray-whiskered man who rarely showed affection in person but who remembered to buy his grandchildren caramel popcorn every Christmas.

As Ken recalled the distinctive smell of fresh-ridden horses and hard-worked harnesses, he felt the familiar pricklings of a new idea. He let it run its course, careful not to kill it with an excess of eagerness. Quietly, he allowed it to coalesce and gain life, until it could stand up to an amount of scrutiny. Yes. Maybe.

The wind was picking up, but he noticed it only peripherally, dropping into his artist haze as his next piece swirled into his imagination in small parts. Like that. Good. And he would need... And the light would come from...

But to do this, he would need some help -- and he wasn't sure that he would get it.

Snapping back to reality, he turned toward home.

***

Margaret Blaine opened the door with a tentative smile. "Ken, wasn't it?" she greeted him. She seemed somewhat wary but not entirely unwelcoming. That was a good sign.

"Yes, that's right. Thanks for remembering me, Mrs. Blaine." Ken shifted the oversize portfolio he held under one arm. For the hundredth time, he wondered whether this was a good idea or not. "May I come in?"

"Of course. And it's Maggie, please." Looking justifiably bewildered, Maggie nevertheless stepped back with a gracious gesture. She took his coat and hung it neatly in the front closet as he toed off his sneakers like an uncouth oaf.

He cleared his throat and looked around. The house seemed empty without the nearly dozen guests who had been in attendance the only other time Ken had been here.

"Hot cocoa?" she offered, leading him to the kitchen.

"Um. Yes, thank you. That sounds wonderful." He seated himself at the small nook table while she warmed the milk, stirring with a wooden spoon. She had on a dark green skirt today, with a tan blouse. Her soft-soled shoes shushed along the tiles as she brought down sugar and cocoa powder from walnut cupboards. Her hair was tied back, making her slow, curious glances all the more obvious.

"It's cold out today," she said, finally. Ken felt himself flush, embarrassed at forgetting the manners that he had grown up with. He shouldn't have lost everything from his past, should he?

"Ah, yes. I'm from back East, so it's not so bad." _Who was whining about the cold earlier?_ he scoffed inwardly at himself.

"Do you see David often? I understand you haven't known each other very long."

"Only a few months. But I-- I feel like we connected. Dave has a lot of heart. I really admire him." He snapped his mouth shut around the awkward words. He felt absurdly like the son-in-law come to visit. He decided on a different tack. "You've known Dave since he moved here, right? He said his aunt and uncle used to live next door."

"Yes. It's too bad they couldn't make it for Thanksgiving this year. They were visiting their daughter in Sacramento. Have you ever met Rosie and Milo?"

He admitted that he hadn't. "Dave did mention more than once that he loved your cooking. He said he used to sneak over to your house for dinner after eating at home."

Maggie smiled at that. "David was quite the scamp. I missed him when he moved out, and then when Rosie moved away. They sold it to the Boehmans beginning of last year. You met them at the party."

He nodded, recalling the quiet couple. "Walter's a great fisherman, I take it. He and Dave talked about poles for a good fifteen minutes." Ken had gone fishing a couple of times. It had been pleasant enough, but he wouldn't go out of his way to do it.

"Walter got John into it, and then David was infected." Maggie threw him an exasperated look that was nevertheless slightly guarded. With deft movements, she poured the finished hot cocoa into two mugs and added sprinklings of cocoa powder.

Ken stood to accept his mug, as well as the napkin she provided. They settled at the kitchen table, across from each other.

Maggie took a quiet sip. Her gray-green eyes never left Ken's face. She patted her lips with a napkin after lowering her mug. Then she said, quite calmly, "You're one of them, aren't you."

He didn't pretend not to understand what she meant. He didn't answer, but he didn't deny the flat observation. "When I first met Dave, he was grieving for John. Your husband. I didn't find out until later, but it was right after John's funeral. Dave was getting himself drunk. At the Green Parrot."

Maggie sighed. She closed her eyes and seemed to sag for a moment. When she reopened her eyes, her gaze was as steady as before. "What did he do?"

"He beat up the bartender. Clocked me one, too." He hesitated. He knew what she was really asking. "He didn't take anyone home. He was drunk as a skunk. I had to help him get home. He cried himself to sleep."

"Did you spend the night?"

He hid a wince. That was a sticky question. "Yes. But nothing inappropriate happened." David's groping hadn't been sexual, only a drunken, angry challenge. "Believe me, I don't have any interest in taking advantage of drunk people. He was exhausted, and I'd had some to drink too, and we just fell asleep. That's all. I swear it."

Maggie nodded. She took another sip of hot cocoa, her face smooth.

Swallowing around the thickness of the cocoa coating his throat, Ken stilled his hands around his mug. "Dave told me about you. About a month after we first met."

She looked curious and slightly apprehensive. "Oh?"

"He told me about how he and his partner came to your house with questions about John. How you stood up to his partner when he said rude things about your husband. I-- I wanted to tell you, I was struck by awe by just Dave's description. You were so brave."

"Brave?" Maggie scoffed. "No. I don't think so."

"But you were!" Ken leaned forward, forgetting his shyness in the face of his passion. "How many people would do a thing like that?"

Maggie shook her head and stared at her mug. "That's what a wife is supposed to do, isn't it? Defend her husband?" She laughed, the sound brittle and bitter.

"I think you're selling yourself short. You're a remarkable woman, if you don't mind me saying."

She looked up at that, and her eyes flashed with sudden emotion. "I tried my best. Oh, I did. Maybe it was all an act for him, but _I_ was faithful and obedient. Till death do us part." She made a wounded noise and turned her gaze to the window. There were well-tended flower beds out there, looking forlorn in the dingy cold.

"All the times I sat alone while he was at his job helping everyone else in the world but me. All the times that I stayed at home like a good little wife, not even daring to try to call him, so I could pretend he was still at work when he must have been with his... schoolteacher friend. I could stand it. As long as he came home every night. As long as I thought he still loved me. But I was fooling myself, wasn't I?"

Her fingers went white around her mug. "Just another stupid woman with a cheating husband," she whispered, her voice suddenly sharp like cut glass. "I should have known. I should have suspected back when he used to spend the live long day out with David instead of at home... sailing their _model boats_. Or playing _football_." She spat the words like venom. "Heaven knows what they were actually doing together."

Ken stared, and then fumbled to say, "You don't--?" The thought of _David_ committing adultery made him queasy. "No, wait, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give you the impression that David's... John being gay just really broke him up. That's why he started talking to me, to sort all that out."

` He tried to project sincerity. He couldn't tell if it worked. Maggie's lips quivered slightly, but she otherwise gave away nothing.

Suddenly, she gave a small moan and put her head in her hands. Ken listened uncomfortably as she drew ragged breaths. He wanted to reach across the table and comfort her, but he knew she wouldn't welcome that. Quietly, he placed his napkin in front of her. She must have seen it, because she nodded once and took it to hold to her face.

It was a long while before she lifted her head again, her face a fragile facsimile of its prior serenity, her beautiful eyes still damp. "I'm sorry. You're right. Of course David would never hurt me like that."

Unlike her husband, she meant?

"David was always good to me. I missed my family from back home, and so did he. We tried to make up for that with each other, I guess." She clutched the napkin in her lap and grasped her mug again with her other hand, running one thumb over the handle. "John never understood that. He was an only child, and he didn't get along with his parents. They were always having fights about money and things..." She gave a visible start and shot him a rueful look. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this."

Ken thought he knew why. She had to be strong in front of everyone else. For her late husband, because she couldn't bear to know the truth. For Dave, because he looked up to her. For all the neighbors and friends, because she needed to protect what dignity she still could. But Ken, Ken was a nobody from outside of her circle. His opinion didn't matter -- and he had no reason to judge her.

"Did it help David, to talk to you?"

"I like to think so." He smiled uncertainly, not sure whether she would take it as a good thing or bad.

"I think so, too," she observed quietly and unexpectedly. Some of her guarded expression returned. "He looked happy at Thanksgiving. Happier than he's been in a long while. You're good for him."

A possible interpretation of her meaning made Ken stutter. "Just to be clear, we're not... I told you, we're friends. Dave's straight. And I'm not, uh..."

To his embarrassment, she gave him a searching look before nodding curtly -- apparently in acknowledgement and nothing more. "So was that all you came here to tell me?" she asked, returning to smooth civility. Her gaze flickered to the portfolio that he had leaned against the table leg next to him.

He cleared his throat. Maggie's mix of elegance, honesty, and stoicly borne grief made him admire her all the more. He could easily see why Dave idolized her and John. "I wanted to ask you a favor," he said directly. "You know I'm an artist." He brought up his portfolio and opened it to remove the sheets he'd brought with him -- five of the tens of pages he'd filled.

"There's a show put on every year, to commemorate Susan B. Anthony and the women's suffrage movement. The theme this year is Everyday Heroines. I've been invited to donate a piece. I'd take it as an honor to draw you. If you're willing. I'd pay the standard modeling fee, of course."

She took it all in calmly. Her gaze sharpened as she ran her eyes over the numerous sketches he'd made of her face. He cringed slightly at how blatantly wrong some of them were, now that he had the real thing in front of him. She looked at him, and her face was considering. "You drew these from memory?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

A blush crept up his face, a trait that irritated and abashed him. "Like I said, you're a remarkable woman, from what Dave told me about you. Not just about that incident with his partner! He'd talk about your cooking or how you'd always remind him to call his mother, things like that. After I met you at the party, I kept imagining asking to take your portrait. I kept trying to think of some excuse." His blush heightened, realizing how that must sound. "I don't mean it in a disrespectful way. I-I'm not crazy. Or a stalker."

"You're passionate about your art. I can tell." Maggie's gaze dropped back to the sketches. "I look... different in these."

"I'm sorry. I know they're very inaccurate--"

"No. I like them." Her eyebrows raised slightly. "I look... nice." She smiled then, a closed but soft look that suited her. "Younger, for one thing."

"I just drew what I remembered," he answered honestly, which made her shake her head.

"You have some of David's devil's tongue. Here I thought you were such a nice young man."

She sounded half-joking, half-critical, like a scolding older sister. When he stuttered for a reply, she smiled at him again. He felt himself blush. "So... will you do it?" He held his breath.

She sobered. "It's for a good cause, I take it?"

"Yes. The pieces are auctioned off, and the proceeds go to a local charity. It's an orphanage this year -- Bay City West Home For Children." Too late, he remembered how Maggie had never been able to have children of her own. But she only nodded in what might be satisfaction.

"All right. I'll do it. Why not?"

"Thank you! It means a lot to me." Already, he was composing the piece in his head, taking advantage of the reddish highlights in her hair and the way her eyes flashed in challenge. "We don't have to get started until after Christmas. Weekday mornings are best for me, but we can schedule a date and time for sure in January."

"January would be fine."

He fumbled out a business card for her to take, and he took her number as well. Before he stood to go, he sheepishly said, "Actually, I have one more thing I'd like to ask you..." She waited expectantly. Her gaze was open and sure, and he felt suddenly confident that she would help him.

  
END Chapter 3.


	4. A Flirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ken has dinner and learns a thing or two.

After his success with Maggie, Ken found himself eager to get back to work. That was often the way with him. Making headway on one project always gave him the energy to do his best on them all. In short order, he had completed a set of postcard drawings promised for one client. He was humming as he placed them carefully in a sturdy envelope for courier delivery to the client's office.

As he put the stamps on and stood to take the envelope to the front hall where he would remember to take it to the post office tomorrow, he was surprised to discover that the song he was humming was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Well, he supposed if he were to sing any holiday tune, it would be the one about the misfit.

Not even such self-deprecation was able to keep him down right now, though. He merely rolled his eyes to himself at the thought.

Soon, he was finalizing a series of new sketches he was planning for Van's boutique. He placed those to the side when he was done. Then, satisfied, he stretched, shook out his limbs, cleared his mind, and got down to work on the project he really cared about.

The whole day, ideas had been marinating in the back of his mind. As he'd been working on his other projects, he'd been picking up additions and corrections and adjustments so that now he was finally putting pencil to paper, the lines and shapes came easily. He experimented with several poses just the same. It was often different to see it on paper. Finally, he chose one and began thinking out the details. It would take several days to complete.

It was nine o' clock before he decided on a late dinner at The Pits. He hadn't been there since before Thanksgiving, but he had thought often of the man who had served them that day, the clip-motioned, glib-tongued man with the fine cheekbones, bent nose, and deepset, watchful eyes.

He was in luck, as Huggy was wiping down the bar when he walked in.

From the man's expression, he recognized Ken as well. "If it isn't Starsky's friend with the working pocketbook! Let it be known that you are always welcome in this fine establishment."

Ken laughed at the outrageous behavior, glad he had decided to come. "Hello, Huggy. Are you still serving dinner?"

Huggy shook his head, as if deeply disappointed. "Did you or did you not see the sign that says we are open all night?"

"I did!" he answered in like boisterousness. "How about another one of your specials?"

"Coming right up." Huggy called the order in to the kitchen, then returned to the bar where Ken had taken a seat. He cocked his head and leaned on one elbow to regard Ken. "So tell me, man. Are you Starsky's friend, or are you his _friend_?"

"What do you mean?"

The man shook his head. "The Bear's been around the block. You don't need to worry about shocking my innocent ears."

Ken finally cottoned on to what Huggy meant. "No!" he blurted, then sat back abashedly at Huggy's amused stare. For goodness sake, why was that the first thing people assumed today? "We're just friends," he asserted more calmly. He frowned in confusion. "But why would you even think...?"

Huggy raised his eyebrows. "You're not going to insult my intelligence, are you? I'm not saying you're advertising or anything but-- Let's put it this way. I'd put you down for charades, not poker."

Flustered, Ken didn't try to deny anything about himself, but... "But David? Why would you think...?"

"Hm. Well, Starsky has always marched to a slightly different drummer, you hear what I mean?"

"No, not really," Ken admitted.

The smooth-talking barkeep looked nonplussed at that. Then he gave a quick grin accompanied by a nod. He brought out two tall mugs and squirted draft beer into them. "On the house," he said, nudging one toward Ken. He leaned on his bony elbows and took a swallow from his own mug. "How long have you known Starsky, anyway?"

"About four months."

Huggy whistled, but didn't explain. Instead, he said, "Now, Starsky. When I first heard of him, I thought he was just another cop, you know? He's got that mean look when he's on the prowl, and he shakes down folks like he thinks you stole his mama's knickers. There were rumors all over about that bad-ass new cop on the streets, causing trouble."

Ken nodded. That had been his first impression as well.

"Then one day John Blaine brings in some young fella. Just made detective, he says, all proud-like. And who do you think it was but brand new Detective David Starsky?"

"The Huggy Special," Ken remembered. "He told me John treated him to a Huggy Special the day he made detective."

The man beamed. "That's right. That boy _cleaned up_ his plate. Made my jaw drop, I'm telling you. He was skinnier then, you know. Not more'n a couple of years out of the army. Hadn't quite built up all his junk food habits yet."

Ken smiled wide at the image.

"'Huggy', he says once he's done. 'I think I'm in love with you. I'll give you a ring right now if you'll cook me a dinner like this every night for the rest of my life.'"

Disbelieving chuckles rolled out of Ken, caused as much by Huggy's performance as by the words themselves. "He said that?"

"He sure did. Now, you understand, he'd had a couple of drinks in him by then. Then, too, he was with John. He don't act like that around his partner. I mean, his _former_ partner." Huggy shrugged his bony shoulders. 

"So did you accept his proposal?"

"Who, me? Slave in the kitchen the rest of my life for a White boy? I don't think so."

Ken chuckled at Huggy's mime of a hardworking housewife. "Too bad for him, huh?"

"Naw. Starsky likes the single life too much. That man is an in _cor_ rigible flirt. Got girls lined up for every day of the week, I expect."

"Oh, really?" Ken asked, intrigued. He and Dave didn't talk much about their love lives, both of them naturally skirting the topic for fear of raising anything sensitive. He wasn't surprised to learn about Dave's exploits, though. A man that confident in his skin didn't get that way without experience. That hip-rolling strut alone...

"Sure! I have seen him go after every manner of female -- short, tall, dark, light, heavy, petite. He likes the cheerful ones best, and the ones who like to dance. But he's none too particular, long as they like to have fun as much as he does."

A thought occurred to Ken. "You ever see him flirt with other men?"

Huggy raised an expressive eyebrow. "Yes and no." He shook his head. "Starsky, he knows who he is and he don't give a damn about what other folk think. So, yeah, I've seen him play around with men, but I ain't never seen him play with _intent_ , you see?"

Ken felt a bit of relief at that, an odd feeling that he dismissed. "Okay. So why'd you think...?"

Huggy shrugged. "I could see you might be the type. And I could see Starsky didn't mind. In fact, you two was as tight as I'd ever seen Starsky with someone other than John. Starsky doesn't hook up with people that fast, usually."

That was a revelation. Dave seemed like the sort of man who would have a hundred friends. Ken couldn't help feeling a bit proud at apparently being in a select group. "I guess we did meet under unusual circumstances." When Huggy perked up curiously at that, Ken related their meeting as briefly as possible. He didn't think it was exactly a secret, and Dave's partner Linda already knew, after all. If it were about to get around at Dave's workplace, it would have already.

Huggy nodded when he was done, more somber than before. "He and John was thick as thieves, those two. It was a sad, sad day when John passed."

"Did you know John well?"

"Yeah. He was a good guy. Gave people respect. His heart was in the right place." He snorted. "Even if his dick wasn't."

The abrupt crudeness startled Ken. "You, uh. You knew, then. Before."

Huggy drew himself up straight. "One thing you'll learn quick if you hang around here, Mr. Ar _tiste_ : If Huggy Bear Brown don't know something, it ain't _worth_ knowing." He sobered a bit, the energy in his frame settling into the joints of his body. "John would talk sometimes about his wife, after he'd had a few. It wasn't none of my business, but I knew something was up. And I knew _him_ well enough to fill in the missing pieces, you know? Anyway, that's probably why John stopped coming around."

Huggy straightened suddenly. "A word of warning, my friend." Ken waited inquiringly as Huggy leaned forward another few inches. "Starsky's a good man. One of the best. But he's no good for you, you dig?"

"What?"

"He's not the kind of guy who settles down. I've seen him try and it never worked out. You... I think you're the type who wants happily ever after."

Ken felt a chill up his spine at the observation. Huggy wasn't kidding when he said he knew things. "Don't worry about me. I'm not looking."

"Hm. Maybe not _looking_ , no."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Probably nothing. All the same. Don't let him get to you. He flirts with inanimate objects. Don't you go thinking it means anything when he bats those big blues at you."

Ken scowled at that. Dave wasn't some kind of _gigolo_. "I'm not some starstruck teenager, okay? We're friends."

Huggy nodded. "And that is a good thing. Starsky may not look it, but he needs friends, and I think you fit the bill."

Caught between bemusement and pleasure, Ken settled for a noncommittal sound. His meal arrived shortly thereafter and Huggy went along his own business while Ken settled in to enjoy the fine food.

***

"Hello?"

"How's the Ambassador for the Queer doing?"

Ken rolled his eyes. "Hey, Charlie. What's up? I was just headed to bed."

"At this hour? You stayed up all night again, didn't you?"

"Guilty as charged."

"Okay, listen. Roger's doing a second round of investments after the New Year, so he might have an info session around the first week of January. You want to ask your cop friend along?"

"He's been pretty busy with work. Could you ask Roger to save up a copy of the literature for him? Hell, for me, too. You know how bogged down I always get in December. I'm going to need to sleep for a week after this."

"Sure thing. Hey, you really think he'll invest?"

Ken smiled as he thought about Dave's stories about his past investments. "Probably. He can't do any worse than he has before."

"Who would've thought, huh? Straight cop giving money to open a gay bar."

"It's not like he's making a donation. He's hoping to get a profit, just like everyone else."

"Still."

"Yeah. I know." Ken had been surprised, too. Dave had seemed pretty taken with the idea, in fact. Roger was promising a new kind of club, geared for a young clientele. Brighter lights, faster music. Maybe just the idea of investing in something hot, new, and risky had caught Dave's oftentimes child-like fancy. He smiled and repeated Huggy's words, "Apparently, he marches to a different drummer."

"To be friends with you? He must."

Ken chuckled along with his friend. "All right, I'm off to bed. Good night."

"Good night."

Passing by his studio, Ken stopped in the doorway to look in with a sense of deep satisfaction. Standing on his easel was his newest project, freshly complete. He would do the finishing work tomorrow. And then...

But first-- sleep. He didn't expect any nightmares tonight.

  
END Chapter 4.


	5. The Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And then finally, it was time. "Frosty, the Snowman" wound to a close, leaving the room silent except for the remaining staticy hum from the turntable. The tree glowed in the corner. They sat on the couch, enjoying one last cup of eggnog each._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Winter Christnukkanzaa, everyone! Best Wishes for the New Year!

Dave arrived at seven on the dot, which was unusual as he tended to run late. The dinner Ken had ordered had arrived well on time, thankfully, and Ken was just laying out the flatware when Dave knocked.

Opening the door laid him open to assault by pine and cardboard.

"David! What the hell?"

"Ain't you never seen a Christmas tree before?" Dave drawled. He clutched a large box by its string wrapping in one hand, and a small live tree in the other. Ken rescued a gold-wrapped package that was slipping from under one arm. "Thanks," Dave said. He looked around Ken's living room. "I knew you wouldn't have a tree. Good thing I brought one. We can decorate it after dinner."

Ken shook his head. "I can't believe you brought a tree. Do you know what that's going to do to my floors?" He gestured at where a few pine needles had already come loose.

"It's not Christmas without a tree."

"What do you care, anyway? I thought you were Jewish."

"It's _Christmas_ , Ken, not some religious thing."

Ken put on the most sardonic look he had. "Christmas, as in the birthday of Jesus _Christ_?"

Dave just rolled his eyes. "You're a regular Scrooge, aren't you? Let me guess. You never hunted for eggs and got sick on chocolate at Easter, either?"

Ken laughed. "As a matter of fact, I didn't. My sister was allergic to chocolate." He enjoyed Dave's theatrical groan of disbelief.

Dinner was enjoyed with cheer and the easiness that Ken had come to find normal between them. They did indeed decorate Dave's tree with the tinsel (Ken pictured daily vacuuming in his future), lights, and colored glass bulbs from the cardboard box Dave had brought. Dave had brought records of Christmas songs as well, which Ken complained over the louder Dave sang along to them.

And then finally, it was time. "Frosty, the Snowman" wound to a close, leaving the room silent except for the remaining staticy hum from the turntable. The tree glowed in the corner. They sat on the couch, enjoying one last cup of eggnog each.

"I've got a present for you," he said, nervous now despite the fact he'd been looking forward to this.

Dave, predictably excited, made a 'gimme' gesture with his hands. "Let me see."

Ken stood and went to his studio, where he picked up the roughly letter paper-sized package off his desk. He'd thought of making a one and one-and-a-half foot like Van's pieces, but he'd decided that Dave might like something he could display on a shelf or a desk instead. He'd had it put in a standing frame and wrapped in dark green paper.

He brought it back and handed it over.

Dave immediately dove in, ripping the paper off with abandon. Ken held his breath, his nerves jittering more than usual. This wasn't just any gallery-goer looking at his work. This was... personal.

"Wow," Dave said. He held up the drawing, staring at it like it contained the secrets of the ages, equal parts shock and amazement. "That's-- How did you do it?"

There were actual tears in Dave's eyes as he spoke, Ken realized. He wasn't sure if he should be apologizing or something. Maybe it was still too soon. "I borrowed some pictures from Maggie. Do you--? Is it all right?"

"It's _amazing_. It looks just like him. God. He looks so happy." Dave traced the glass over the place where John's arm laid over the younger Dave Starsky's shoulder. Ken had used pastels for the softer look. It'd taken him several tries to get the final effect he'd wanted, with the light seeming to come off of the two men in the portrait. Dave sat back heavily against the couchback, still staring. "Shit. Now I feel like an idiot."

"What? Why?"

"I didn't get you anything hardly so good."

"Aw, Dave."

Dave set the portrait carefully on top of the coffee table. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the gold-wrapped package next to him on the seat and offered it to Ken. "This is for you."

Ken reached for it, but Dave held on to the package, stopping Ken from taking it completely for a moment before letting go with a sheepish look. "Can I open it?" Ken asked, teasing him.

"Yeah, of course. Wait," he belied himself, putting one hand over the package even though Ken hadn't moved yet to unwrap the cheerful golden paper. He tapped his fingers on it, then drew his hand back.

"I took a photography class back in high school," he blurted.

Ken nodded, his interest piqued. The rectangular, flat object could indeed be a framed photograph. What would a teenage David Starsky find interesting and meaningful? What kind of photograph would he give as a gift?

"We developed our own film and everything. Learned about exposures and stuff. Not so special like painting, you know, but it was fun. We shared these old beat up cameras and went on trips together to get shots of things. Mostly it was normal stuff, like the school, and other students, and buildings and things."

"Photography is an art form all on its own," Ken reminded him encouragingly. "There are lots of famous photographers. Ansel Adams, for instance."

"Oh, yeah. The guy with the parks?"

"That's right." Photography suited Dave. Somewhere between hard reality and the overlapped whimsies of the mind. Ken could picture a younger Dave carrying a camera, crawling around on the ground and climbing ledges and hanging upside down from trees to get that perfect shot.

Dave smiled, too, looking more relaxed now. He gestured at the package. "I asked my Ma to ship this from home. They took us to Central Park once. I spent most of my film at the zoo, but it turned out this was one of my favorites. The teacher helped me get the shading right. He said it was, uh, well-composed." Dave trickled into uncertainty again, probably embarrassed at using art-specific vocabulary in Ken's presence, even though he had no need to be.

"So can I open it _now_?"

Huffing a laugh, Dave waved both hands. "Yeah, yeah, go ahead."

Deeply curious, Ken ripped off the paper with less care and more haste than he normally would use. A thin wooden frame was revealed, solid but not gaudy, with convenient hanging hooks on both the longer and shorter side. Store-bought but nice. Ken turned it over and stared at the photograph behind the glass.

It was a shot taken in Central Park, as Dave had said. Greenery was visible behind the curtain of water falling from the fountain that was at the left center of the shot. The real focus of the piece, however, arced across the water in a ripple of water drops and bent light. A rainbow.

"Oh," was all Ken could say for a moment.

"I didn't think it'd come out, being in black and white. But it looks okay, huh?"

"It's beautiful." Dave had a good eye. The composition was indeed very good. The edge of the fountain drew the eye naturally to the bottom corner where the rainbow started, so one could follow the light upwards. The layers of focus -- background, fountain, and water -- added depth and reality to the shot while the dancing cupids of the stonework fountain made it seem a touch magical.

Dave cleared his throat. "I remembered what you said. About how rainbows are wishes. And I was thinking how... how I wish we could be friends for a long time."

Ken stared at him. That was just what he had been thinking all this week. "Dave..."

"Too soapy, huh?"

"No, not at all," Ken assured him, even though he was sure his light coloring must be betraying him as usual. "This... This is wonderful." He paused. Started to speak. Paused again. He didn't want to ruin the mood, but he felt Dave had the right to know. "Dave."

"Uh huh?"

"The rainbows that Charlie and I always talk about. They're not just about wishes. They're about... _impossible_ wishes."

"What do you mean?" Ken hated how Dave instantly lost the slightly smug look he'd started sporting.

"All those rallies and marches didn't change anything. You can't change the world just by talking and painting pretty signs. It's not as if people were fighting and dying all over just because it hadn't occurred to them yet that they could have peace instead. All the things that caused the wars didn't go away. They won't ever go away, because people are all just naturally _selfish_ and _stupid_.

"Do you know? We have enough nuclear devices now to blow up the entire world five times over! And what's to stop someone from doing it one day? Some piece of cardboard with a rainbow flag and a smiley face? God, I can't believe we were so naïve." Realizing suddenly how ridiculous he must seem, Ken dropped his widely gesticulating hand and looked away. All this impassioned orating should have been from a lifetime ago, when he’d been a different person.

Dave looked pensive for a moment. "But for a while, you thought you could do it, didn't you? Save the world. Make everything better."

Ken shrugged. But the truth was... "Yeah."

"Then it's worth it, isn't it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You felt invincible for a while."

"I guess so."

Dave nodded. "All cops get that feeling the first time they're on the streets. It's the best damn feeling in the world. You think you can do anything. Catch all the bad guys, keep all the innocent folk safe."

"You can't save everyone. It's not possible." Ken winced at the nastiness in his own voice, but Dave only nodded in understanding.

"Sure. But you have to remember that feeling. Pull it out sometimes and remind yourself. You have to pretend that it _isn't_ impossible. And then maybe it won't be. You get what I mean?"

Ken nodded slowly. "Positive thinking."

"Huh?"

"If you believe that things will work out for the best, then they will," Ken paraphrased.

"Yeah, that's it exactly." Dave gestured at the photograph. "Your rainbows. You might say they're impossible, but you never know, right? So you can't stop believing."

"I... never thought about it that way before." Ken studied the black and white photograph, impressed again at how clear the arc of the rainbow looked even without its signature bands of bright color. He still didn't think he'd really done much good with all those silly protests he'd attended. But then again, like Dave said, maybe it hadn't all been for _nothing_.

"Sometimes things go bad," Dave said quietly. "Sometimes good people get hurt and bad people get away. But you still can't just give up. Otherwise you burn out. Or you get all cynical and disillusioned and stop giving a crap about the rules you're supposed to be upholding." Dave flicked a non-existent fleck from his jeans. "I knew a guy like that."

Ken caught the important word. "Knew?"

"Yeah. Iron Mike. That's what we called him. He was tough on crime, and he had more arrests on file than anybody else in the entire department -- even John. We looked up to him, you know? But it wasn't like we thought. Mike got where he was because he'd been dealing with somebody on the wrong side of the law. 'Give a little, get a lot.' That was his rule. Only, he was giving away all the things a cop's never supposed to.

"He sure got a lot, all right. Got a slug to the gut. Hell of a way to go. Marc and I were with him when he died." Dave made a pained expression, and Ken grimaced, too, imagining it. "Marc and I... We thought Mike was doing the wrong things for the right reasons. We and our captain, we made sure his name didn't get dragged through the mud afterward. But Johnny-- Johnny was mad as hell. He thought Mike should fry. Maybe he didn't like the thought of being lumped in with a cop who'd gone bad."

"What?" Ken exclaimed. Dave couldn't possibly mean... "Are you saying John was dirty?"

"Nah, nah. 'Course not. You know how it is, though. The way the job is, you've got to know you can trust your brothers a hundred percent all the time. And there're some people who can't make up their minds which they trust less -- a dirty cop, or a gay cop." Dave looked sad instead of angry. "I wish I'd known what Johnny was so mad about. I wondered, later, if maybe that's when he started to..."

Dave cut himself off and scrubbed both hands over his face. He let out a breath decisively. Then he picked up the portrait and focused his intense gaze on it. "The world's going to be different one day," he said. He could have been speaking to his dead friend, or to himself, or to Ken. Each seemed equally likely.

Ken found himself speechless for a moment. "Here's wishing," he said finally, lifting the framed photograph Dave had given him as if in a toast.

"No." Dave smiled at him then, sunny and confident and determined, the way Charlie had used to look next to Ken on the picket line. He pointed at the photograph in Ken's hands. "When God gave us the rainbow, He wasn't making a wish. He was making a promise."

Ken was more or less an atheist, but something about that felt good to him.

"A promise, huh?" he said. Boldly, he laid his hand on Dave's forearm.

"Yup." Doing Ken one better, Dave cupped the back of Ken's neck with one rough, warm hand, pulling them a bit closer together. "Sorry, pal. You're stuck with me for the next ten years at least. I've still got that bet with you, remember?"

"Ten years is a long time to wait to _lose_ a bet," Ken said back, making Dave laugh and shake Ken mock-threateningly.

Inside, though, Ken was pretty sure it would be a win for them both.

  
END Part Four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:  
> [A New Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/460988) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji  
> [Innocence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/250323) (Wilby Wonderful), by kuonji  
> [A Very Starsky Christmas](http://archiveofourown.org/works/363154), by Allie  
> [The Precious Present](http://starskyhutcharchive.com/starskyhutchgen/LateModels/brit/ThePreciousPresent.htm) (Starsky & Hutch), by Brit  
> [Absorbed In Paint](http://community.livejournal.com/starskyhutch911/418934.html) (art), by Moni K.  
> [Take Me The Way I Am](https://youtu.be/A6af1Vo9gl4) (music video), by Ancasta


End file.
